Cold Fear (22 page)

THIRTY-SIX

Montana
’s
five-member Board of Pardons and Parole recommended against Isaiah
Hood’s receiving executive clemency, but Governor Grayson Nye was not bound to
the decision. David Cohen was less than thirty minutes away from appealing to
him face to face.

The Governor was Hood’s last legal chance to live.

Upon receiving the fax from the board after it convened
an emergency night meeting to ultimately reject Hood’s petition, Cohen called
John Jackson, the attorney general’s top lawyer, from his cell phone while
exiting at Garrison and heading for the capital.

“David, the Governor is aware of the board’s not
recommending executive clemency. He’ll make his decision in the morning.”

“I just need fifteen minutes, John. He’s in town. I’ll
be there in an hour.”

Static passed between the two cell phones.

“David he’s at a black-tie fundraiser. This is really
not appropriate--”

“Damn it, John! He should be concerned about the man’s
life in his hands, not the wine glass! Please! Give me the address so your
conscience will rest.”

Jackson
sighed and dictated the
location.

“Leave your phone on, John. I’ll call you when I
arrive.”

Cohen never expected the board to recommend clemency. He
would have to make his gamble with the governor, who would grasp the scope of
the political ramifications of executing an innocent man.

The gala was in Helena’s mansion district, an area of
grand homes built in the late 1800s by the territory’s mining millionaires.
They were opulent structures in Victorian, Romanesque and Queen Anne styles.

Cohen parked his rented Neon on the street in front of
the one where the governor’s function was, then placed his call. Jackson was dressed in a black dinner jacket, which set off his silver hair and tan, when
he came to the front steps. Cohen was wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and
khakis.

“Come this way,” Jackson said, leading him upstairs to a
large private study with a massive mahogany board table, floor-to-ceiling
windows and bookshelves. “I’ll be right back with him. You’ll have ten minutes.”

“Thanks, John.”

Cohen sat alone at the board table drumming his fingers
on his briefcase. He was well aware of the governor’s connections to Washington, DC, and his plans to run for national office. He sat upright when he heard
the state’s most famous voice say his name.

“I’ve heard much about you.” The governor’s handshake
was solid. Jackson and another man accompanied him. “Of course you know our
attorney general and John.”

The governor sat beside Cohen.

“Sir, have you made your decision to accept the Board’s
recommendation that Isaiah Hood not receive executive clemency?”

“Not yet. I’ll do that in the morning. I understand you
want me to consider a serious new development in the man’s case?”

“Yes.”

“Something outside of what the Board saw today?”

“Yes. I believe with all my heart Isaiah Hood is
innocent.”

“I understand you’re an idealistic, young attorney. I
admire that.”

Cohen unsnapped the locks on his briefcase and produced
a file.

“It’s simple sir.” He handed the governor all the
pertinent photographs of Emily Baker, Rachel and the unpublished archived
photos.

The governor knitted his brows, studying all the
pictures. “This is the woman whose child is missing in Glacier? And the others?
I am not sure I understand the point you’re attempting to illustrate here.” He
shot a glance to Jackson and the attorney general.

“Governor Nye,” Cohen said. “Isaiah Hood, who maintains
his innocence, was given the death penalty solely on the testimony of this
child, the only other witness to the death of Rachel Ross. Her sister. Now the
same
woman’s child is missing in the
same
area, under the
same
circumstances.”

The governor studied the pictures intently.

How could his office not know this?

He was the one who had quietly pressured Washington to get the FBI involved to clear the case of the lost girl because of the
suspicions surrounding her disappearance. Because he was determined not to sit
on his hands the way some states did and let the thing fester into a cancer on
the justice system of this country.

Why the hell didn’t they know about Emily Baker’s
connection to Hood? He had just been blind-sided by a Chicago lawyer with an
earring.

“Governor, I think you appreciate the ramifications
should you proceed in executing my client. Now knowing full well that this woman”--Cohen
touched Emily Baker’s news photo--“was most likely involved in the murder of
her sister twenty-two years ago, and has possibly repeated the crime with her
daughter, under your watch. I appreciate that the names do not match. I
understand hers was changed when she left the state years ago, then changed
again when she married Doug Baker. I am searching for documentation to confirm
Emily Baker was originally Natalie Ross. As far as I know, no one in the press
has yet made the connection, but it is only a matter of time before they do.
This is not something your office has kept quiet, is it, sir?”

The governor’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was seething
inside but managed a political grin as he studied Cohen’s evidence, sitting on
the polished mahogany table, staring him in the face.

“Mr. Cohen, your client was convicted under the laws of
this state. His conviction was upheld by the supreme court of this state. Your
attempt to appeal it in the highest court in the nation failed. The Montana
State Board of Pardons and Parole has not found merit in your petition to
recommend executive clemency for your client. A lot of people have studied this
file before it came to me. I cannot interfere and undermine the laws of this
state and nation. As you know, I do not retry cases. I am limited in what I can
do.

“The case of Paige Baker, the little girl from California, is tragic. She has been reported missing and every resource, every effort, is
being utilized to locate her. For you, at this stage, to attempt to draw a
hideous connection between the case of your client, convicted of the
cold-blooded murder of a child, a case which is all but concluded, and the
tragedy endured by a family in Glacier is at best, tenuous, and at its worst,
morally abhorrent.”

“I am sorry you see it that way, sir. I disagree.”

“That is your privilege. What I will do is take your
concerns, as weak as they are, under advisement. I’ll make my decision known to
you tomorrow.”

The governor stood, signaling that Cohen’s time with him
had ended. The young lawyer took in the gazes of the other men. He shook the
governor’s extended hand and left. Jackson saw him out, through the house, to
the front steps.

“I’ll say one thing for you, David. You better have
brass ones. After pulling a disgraceful stunt like that.”

Cohen stopped, turning on the step.

“Why’s that, John?”

“Because you just squeezed the governor’s balls. Now
he’s likely to squeeze yours”--Jackson winked--“so hard, they’ll hear the
scream in Chicago.”

Cohen took the comment, tapping his fingers on his
briefcase, chuckling to himself. “You’re forgetting something fundamental here,
John.”

“I am?”

“My client and I are already fucked. Got nothing to
lose. It is all on the line. Now the Grayson Nye, on the other hand, well, let
me put it this way, when’s the last time your boss had his picture on the front
page of the
New York Times
?”

A scowl emerged on Jackson’s face.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Cohen stepped into Jackson’s space.

“Watch me. And when your boss screams, they’ll hear it
in Washington.”

Jackson
returned to the study,
where the governor was on the phone. Upset. The attorney general raised a hand
of caution to Jackson. The Governor dialed a number but slammed the phone down,
abandoning the call. “Why the hell did we not know about the mother’s
connection to Hood?”

The attorney general was on his cell phone demanding
someone commence emergency research. “Sir,” he said, snapping his phone shut,
“I was just getting a status report from Glacier. They’re no closer to finding
the girl.”

Grayson Nye shook his head. “This is a goddamn mess.”

“You are clear on the execution on all legal grounds.
Cohen presents nothing in the way of solid evidence that warrants clemency. The
U.S. Supreme Court has green-lighted you here.”

“And politically?”

The attorney general cleared his throat.

“If you delay this guy, you will be seen as being soft
on crime. He is a convicted child killer. If you delay under the
suggestion
it is linked to the tragic ongoing case in Glacier, you risk offending the
state of California in the perception you are convicting an anguished woman in
a time of torment, based on what? A Chicago lawyer’s strategy of smoke and
mirrors?”

“I could delay for thirty days.”

“Based on what?” the attorney general said. “You’ll be
pegged as soft and indecisive. Not assets to national aspirations, Grayson.”

“What if she is guilty of harming her child in Glacier?”

“Then she will be prosecuted,” Jackson said.

“And we’ll have executed an innocent man.”

“You cannot retry his case. She would have to confess
and provide some sort of irrefutable evidence,” the attorney general said.

The governor thought of his family.

He had an eighteen-year-old daughter heading off to
Yale. The study’s grandfather clock began chiming. Time was the factor. Hood’s
execution was scheduled in the next forty-eight hours. The FBI found a bloodied
T-shirt, a bloodied ax. The mother was undergoing counseling. As far as he
knew, the investigators knew nothing of Cohen’s claim, were unaware of who the
mother really was. Not yet. Jesus, please let them find that kid alive.

“I’ll decide in the morning.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

FBI Special Agent
Tracy Bowman
watched the helicopter’s blinking strobe lights shrinking, vanishing into the
dusk after Zander and Doug Baker left the command post.

She would leave later on the last flight before
nightfall.

Bowman scanned the mountains, feeling the temperature
drop. She pulled her jacket tighter and bit her lip. She reviewed everything so
far.

What had befallen this family?

Emily had tried to escape her torment by crawling into
her daughter’s tent. A tense calm descended upon operations. No sounds could be
heard, except for the low crackle of radio traffic as searchers throughout
Grizzly Tooth prepared to dig in for the night. Each of them privately
tabulating the time and conditions surrounding Paige Baker’s disappearance,
then calculating her odds of survival. Coming up on sixty hours. Not good.

Snow and rain were forecast for part of the night.

Suddenly, Bowman felt alone. She had not talked with her
Mark since rushing here. She took an FBI satellite phone, went to the edge of
the campsite, called her home in Lolo. It had been, what? Two days? No, one. It
felt like a lifetime. She just needed to hear his voice.

No answer at her home. She dialed the home number of her
friend, Roberta Cara.

“Roberta, it’s Tracy. I can’t talk long. How is
everything?”

“Fine, but you sound funny.”

“It’s a satellite phone, wait a beat before answering.
I’m on a mountain in Glacier. How’s Mark?”

Roberta counted one Mississippi.

“He’s fine. He’s here. We tried to call you on your
cell. He wanted to stay at our house with the boys. Lord, I pray they find that
little girl. Wait, I’ll put Mark on.”

Static, beeping, commotion, overhearing Roberta,
explaining how the phone worked, then Mark. “Hi Mom. You’re really on a
mountain. Cool.”

“Hey there, Marshal. Yes, I am. You having fun?”

“Yeah. I saw you on the TV news. In the background
walking with some people. How long before you’re done, Mom?”

“Hard to say. Are you taking your medicine?”

“Yup. And Lance is teaching me how to whittle with a
penknife.”

“You be careful with that knife. I’ll be home as soon as
I can, but I got to go. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom. Hope you find the little girl.”

Bowman felt a bittersweet rush of warmth and heartache
pass through her. Sitting on the mountain miles from Mark, cradling the phone,
she counted her blessings, gazing upon the tent where Emily wept as wind
rustled its walls.

What happened to this family?

Bowman felt Emily was on the brink of opening up to her.
She was learning more about her past, her childhood in Montana. If she could
only get her to continue talking so she could pull the curtain back on the
truth of what happened out here. The clock was ticking. It was critical.

Succeed here and she could move Mark to Los
Angeles and better treatment. Did she even know what she was doing? Was she
handling Emily Baker the right way? Zander gave her no indication. He was icy.
“Keep
pushing it, Bowman.”
Why was he so cold?

She had overheard other agents gossiping about how
Zander was haunted by a screw-up in a Georgia child murder case years ago. Then
a female agent from Seattle said Zander was in need of comforting, that he was
going through a wildly ugly separation back in DC. That might have been why he
behaved like a jerk, thought Bowman.

Stop it, Tracy. What are you doing? This is
inappropriate. Not right.

Bowman admonished herself, studying Paige Baker’s tent
flapping in the cold wind. Like a burial shroud. Would they ever find Paige?

Bowman had a few hours before her flight. Exhausted, she
checked with one of the agents assigned to keep the early-night watch on Emily,
then crawled into the tent the rangers had set up for her. As the wind did its
work, she fell asleep dreaming of Mark, California and Carl. They were there
together walking in the sun happy…until the screaming….

Screaming?

Bowman scrambled from her tent.

Emily Baker’s demon had returned.